Edge of Destiny (25 page)

At a run, the invaders launched themselves up the next throat of stone and ran on through the hall where the ice giants had died. The ceiling was cracking apart, spilling sunlight across the broken figures below. The cracks spread down the walls, and great hunks of ice caved inward. Massive blocks pounded down all around them.

Speed was the thing, and Rytlock, Eir, and Logan poured it on. Caithe struggled to keep up, but Garm snatched her up and hurled her onto his back.

A house-size hunk of ice plunged from above them.

The dire wolf’s claws skittered on the icy floor as he struggled to outrun the block.

Boom!
The slab staved the floor right behind Garm. A black line snaked after him, splitting the ice at his paws.

With a yelp, he dodged away from the opening rift, following Rytlock, Eir, and Logan through the chamber of the ice bats. A few more bounds brought them out of the collapsing cavern and into the spanking sunlight of the glacier. Still, they ran, rushing beyond the avalanche zone until they could stand on scoured bedrock. Only then did they turn to look at what they’d wrought.

Behind them, the lair of the Dragonspawn imploded. The ceiling fell in, and millions of tons of ice buried the horrors that lay below. The roar of it—the earth-shattering roar of it—was like a deafening ovation.

The Dragonspawn was gone.

The Dragonspawn and a thousand of the icebrood were destroyed.

Logan whooped, “How’s that for a job well done?”

“It’s not done yet,” Zojja said, nodding toward Rytlock, who set down Snaff.

“Snaff,” Rytlock said, staring into the golemancer’s eyes. “Snaff. Snap out of it!”

Snaff reached numbly to the golden laurel that encircled his head and drew it off. The red powerstones in it flashed and then faded to darkness. He blinked at Rytlock. “That
hurt.
”

“Guess it was kind of a rough ride.”

“Not that,” Snaff said in a weary voice. “Getting crushed by a glacier.”

Eir laughed. “You did it, though, you know? You destroyed the Dragonspawn.”

“No.” Snaff shook his head, looking around at them all and smiling weakly. “
We
did it.”

“They did it!” shouted the crier in the marketplace of Hoelbrak. “Destiny’s Edge destroyed the Dragonspawn! They slew a thousand of the icebrood!”

As Eir and her friends marched proudly into Hoelbrak, norn warriors gathered along the central way to stand at attention. Bakers and brewers and weavers brought loaves of bread and barrels of ale and robes of wool. Towering hunters and rangers stood shoulder to shoulder and cheered as the band passed through their midst. Norn children—as tall as Logan but wide-eyed and young—pushed through the crowd to gawk in awe as the famous warriors passed, then darted through back alleys to take up new positions and stand in awe again. After squeezing in a third time, the children ran off to empty fields where they made believe they were the slayers of the Dragonspawn. The girls argued over which was Eir and Caithe (and Zojja), and the boys fought over who was Rytlock and Logan and Snaff (and Garm).

But the one who seemed most appreciative of all was Knut Whitebear. He waited for the honorees outside the hunting hall, flanked on both sides by the Wolfborn. A smile lurked within Knut’s braided beard, and his eyes sparkled like flecks from a glacier. As Eir and her friends approached, Knut lifted arms mantled in white bearskin and said, “Welcome home, daughter of Hoelbrak, daughter of the norn.” He stepped forward, unfolding an ermine cloak.

Eir knelt so that he could set the cloak on her shoulders.

“You who once were outcast have returned to us victorious, as a norn should. Well done. You and your friends”—he paused to look at each of them—“are welcome now and forever in Hoelbrak.”

The crowd cheered, and Knut Whitebear clasped Eir’s hand and raised it overhead.

She shot him a fierce look. “You should not have doubted me.”

He grinned, not looking at her. “I did not doubt you. I doubted that anyone could do what you set out to do.”

“I have greater things I will do.”

“I hoped you would say that.” Still holding her hand, Knut Whitebear led Eir and the others into the great hall of Hoelbrak, to the fang of Jormag, embedded in the ground. The fang was a sacred relic from the dragon, harder than diamond. Thousands of norn had tried their blades against it, but none could even dent the fang. Walking beside it, Knut leaned his head toward Eir. “So, when will you challenge the dragon’s tooth?”

Her smile faded slightly, but she turned to the revelers all around and cried out, “Let the feast begin!”

A great cheer rocked the rafters of Hoelbrak.

And what a feast it was! The fires of Hoelbrak had been stoked, and six caribou turned on spits above them. There were kettles of stew and mounds of bread and barrels of beer. The whole hall filled, with revelers arriving throughout the day and evening. Every warrior in the area converged to gaze on this ragtag band, came to lift a mighty flagon to their health and hear them tell their tales of valor.

As the ale and mead flowed, the crowd thickened around Snaff and Zojja, the best storytellers in the group. Snaff’s account was florid and fantastic, and Zojja’s interruptions were comically earnest. When they pantomimed Sandy’s fight against the whirling cyclone, the hunting hall filled with laughter and cheers.

Caithe endured the festivities as long as she could. The crowd was unsettling to her—so many people crossing paths, so many false words spoken. Snaff was perhaps the worst. Everything he said was an exaggeration, which meant a
lie,
but still the norn roared with approval.

“Why should the Dragonspawn’s defeat be commemorated with lies?” Caithe wondered to herself as she stepped from the hunting hall.

“You never could enjoy a party,” came a voice like scarlet silk.

Caithe gasped, turning to see Faolain. “What are you doing here?”

“I’ve been following you,” Faolain said, standing in her black-orchid dress, leaning in so that her warm breath wafted across Caithe’s ear. “I’ve watched you risk your life to kill a dragon champion. Foolish girl.”

Caithe stared quizzically at her. “You act as if it is nothing.”

“It
is
nothing. Your life is too precious for this.”

Caithe pushed Faolain back. “I don’t belong to you.”

“Don’t you?” Faolain’s black fingernails flashed to pull back the collar of Caithe’s shirt. There, above her heart, a black handprint marked her skin. “Your heart belongs to me.”

“No!” Caithe said, prying Faolain’s hand loose and turning away. “I reject the Nightmare.”

“But you love me.” Faolain nodded toward Eir and Rytlock within the hunting hall. “Do they love you, as I do?”

Caithe scowled. “I don’t know what they feel. They are a mystery to me.”

“But I am not. There are no mysteries between us.” Faolain’s black eyes grew suddenly intense. “Join me! The Dream is only a dream. The Nightmare is the reality.”

“Leave me.”

The dark sylvari took an unsteady step toward Caithe. “My love is poisoning you. You cannot be without me.”

“Go!”

Snaff was in the middle of another retelling when Caithe staggered into the hunting hall as if drunk—except that she had tears running down her cheeks.

Snaff broke away from the group he had been entertaining and approached Caithe. “Tears?”

Caithe dashed them away. “They’re nothing.”

“Nothing? They’re everything. They’re what you
feel.
Why are you crying?”

“It’s nothing,” Caithe averred, rubbing her hand on her cheek.

Snaff said levelly, “You wouldn’t cry unless the world itself was in danger.”

Her eyes glistened. “It is!”

“What danger?” Snaff asked.

“The dragons. No one is fighting the dragons, but we must. We stopped a dragon champion, but what about the power behind him?”

“You’re right,” Snaff said gently, “but that’s not why you’re crying.”

Caithe stared at him, her eyes wide but searching, trying to decide if she could trust him. “It’s that someone I care about has chosen the wrong path.”

Snaff bowed his head and pursed his lips. “Anyone I know?”

“No.” Caithe shook her head. “Another sylvari. She has gone to Nightmare.”

Snaff nodded. “I’m sorry. Every creature must choose her own path.”

“But what can I do? I have to save her.”

Snaff smiled sadly. “You can’t save anyone but yourself. I can’t save my own apprentice, though she means more to me than the world. I can only be good to her and hope she notices, hope she learns from me.” His expression clouded. “She will outlive me, as she should. She will face horrors that I will not. And in those moments, I hope she remembers my strength, not my weakness.”

Caithe stared at him for a searching moment. “She will. She will remember.”

“And this one that you care about—she will remember, too.”

The east was gloaming with approaching dawn when at last Eir and her comrades bid farewell to the other revelers. They staggered to the rooms prepared for them—the finest in Hoelbrak, which meant huge beds and simple linens and great basins for washing. It was more than any of them could have hoped for, and each was asleep the moment his or her head hit the pillow.

They slept all through the day and into the next night, awakening to hear the sounds of more merrymaking—
norn
merrymaking, which sounded like a continual bar fight punctuated with ferocious laughter. Norn were streaming into Hoelbrak from dozens of miles away—the wild wanderers and the loner nomads who had only just heard of the Dragonspawn’s destruction and of the team that did him in. Every one of these new arrivals had suffered beneath the terrible reign of the dragon champion. Every one had battled the icebrood. They now gathered to give thanks and gawk, to have a drink or five and celebrate heroes whose deeds would be retold for generations.

Eir retired from the second night of celebration a little earlier than the others, and Garm went with her. He watched her with interest. She had that look—the look of planning something.

First, she went to the statue of her father. “I did it, Father. I killed the icebrood, and the Dragonspawn, too.”

She paused as if expecting some response from the stony figure. The old man only returned her gaze, his eyes seeming to look beyond her.

Eir looked down at her feet. “I know. There’s still the dragon. He’s crippled now, without his greatest champion, and maybe we can strike.”

Still, the statue watched her impassively.

Eir went to her drafting desk, drew out a scrap of paper, and began drawing. At first, the figure was the Dragonspawn, and then, the Dragonspawn devolving into a cyclone, and then Sandy being pulled into the monster. She sat back and blinked.

Garm nuzzled her.

“Perhaps it is time to make a try at the old wyrm.”

The wolf looked levelly at her.

She smiled, ruffling the fur between his ears. “I’ll start by chipping its tooth.”

Next afternoon, before the celebrations began in earnest, Eir strode down the lanes of Hoelbrak. Her carving belt jangled, her axes and mallets hung in hand, and her dire wolf jogged beside her.

“She’s going to take on the fang!” shouted one of the norn revelers.

Many followed this living legend as she made her way toward the hunting hall. The crowd seemed to swell with each step Eir took. They had heard the magnificent tales of the Dragonspawn’s defeat, and whatever this woman planned next must be even more spectacular.

Among the crowd were Eir’s companions, following with excitement and a mixture of other emotions. When Rytlock and Logan had heard what Eir planned, they had wanted to lend their weapons to the attempt. Snaff had even wanted to bring Sandy to bear. Eir refused them all, saying she was their leader, and that if she was not strong enough to break the tooth, they would not face the dragon.

Caithe and Zojja were not starry-eyed about the prospects, either. Caithe knew all too well the power of the dragons, and she feared that Eir was only setting herself up for failure. Zojja, on the other hand, thought it absurd that physical attacks could do anything against a magical creature.

Dragging along a crowd of believers and skeptics, friends and foes, Eir reached the hunting hall of Hoelbrak and hurled the doors open. She strode in, and the crowd around her flooded in as well. Eir headed straight toward the central feature of the hall—the Fang of the Serpent. This relic of the dragon had been brought back by the great hero Asgeir and rooted in the floor of the hall—a challenge to all norn champions. If they could not chip or dent or scratch the fang, they had no hope of facing and defeating Jormag himself.

Eir strode up before the fang, which was eight feet tall, broad, curved, and icy white. The crowd murmured excitedly as they settled in around it. Eir’s eyes traced across them all, and she bound her red hair back from her shoulders.

“You have heard great tales of us, of the ones who slew Jormag’s champion. But we did this thing only to weaken the dragon himself. I’ve come here tonight to see if he is weak enough that we can face him.”

The crowd applauded, watching avidly as she drew two great axes from her belt. When she began to swing the axes in wide arcs, though, the spectators fell back.

“Spirit of Wolf, guide my work.”

The two blades crossed in midair, and then Eir lunged forward, and the heads came down on either side of the tooth. They crashed into it, their keen edges biting into the hard whiteness—but no.
It
was biting into
them.
The axes skirled down the fang in a shower of sparks, their faces worn away in curves.

Eir looked at the blades, burrs rising from their ruined edges. She tossed the axes aside. “Axes are for trees,” she said, and the crowd laughed. Eir drew from her belt a large, keen chisel and a great mallet. “Imagine these on your own tooth.”

As the crowd cringed, Eir positioned the chisel in a line that ran the length of the fang. She raised the mallet and brought it down with a
crack.
The fang showed no damage. She reared back with the mallet and pounded the chisel again.
Crack!
Still no fault shown on the fang. Then she took a deep breath and struck it an almighty
CRACK!